The sound of grumbling and laughing Giants wafted over the tents to the Sword King’s ears. Vireon had furnished them with a hundred kegs of ale when the armies passed Allundra. All it took was red meat and good ale to keep the Giants happy. Unlike the dour, grim-faced soldiers of Uurz, the Udvorg did not dread the great battle that lay ahead. While the Uurzians oiled their blades, sparred, and mended the straps of their armor, the blue-skinned Giants continued to jest, sing, and wrestle about their fires. A visitor to the camp would never know the Giants had lost both their King and their shamaness. The Udvorg were not mourners.
Yet Tyro had heard their complaints to Vireon, and he admired the grace with which the Giant-King dismissed their concerns. Losing Varda of the Keen Eyes was a personal inconvenience for Vireon, but he proclaimed it an Uduri affair. Dahrima’s slaying of the blue witch was just by Uduri Law, which allowed for personal duels. When Vireon had replaced Angrid as King of the Udvorg, his word had become incontestable. In private, Vireon brooded over the loss of the two Giantesses who were foremost in his confidence. Dahrima, the murderess, had fled into the sea, or along the northern coast. No one seemed quite sure which was the case. Tyro did not question Vireon’s judgment on the matter, although if Dahrima had slain one of his own warriors, the act would have had far greater ramifications.
Tyro propped his feet upon the low table. Two days of nonstop riding from the bottom of the Great Stair had not made up for the time lost by marching inland to use it. Yet there had been no other way to get the northern host down from the High Realm into the bosom of the Stormlands. The Udvorg might have climbed down the Earth Wall–in fact several of them did so on a dare–but the Men and horses and supply wagons could only return the way they had come in the first place. Tyro took solace in the fact that the legions were far closer to the Sharrian valley now than to Uurz. Another three days of marching should bring them to the ruins.
Vireon’s faith in Iardu’s word was unquestionable, so Tyro kept any doubts to himself. The wizard had said Zyung would beach his horde at Shar Dni rather than Khyrei, so Tyro had little choice but to accept this northward journey. Mendices warned him constantly against taking the Shaper’s council, but Mendices did not trust the Giant-King either. Tyro had thrown in his lot with Vireon and increased the power of Uurz by doing so. Now was not the time to second-guess or defy Vireon’s decisions. Whatever their Kings’ personal squabbles might be, Uurz and Udurum were at their mightiest when allied. In truth, Tyro cared little whether they fought a battle among the Sharrian ruins or on the shores of Khyrei. Now that the black city was no longer an enemy, these invaders would serve well to test the mettle of the northern forces. Fighting a common enemy would strengthen the Uurz–Udurum alliance even further, as well as bringing glory to the victors for repelling the greatest invasion in history.
The few Khyrein ships anchored at Allundra had quickly raised their sails and taken to the sea when the vanguard of Giants came marching out of the Earth Wall’s shadow. Tyro had enjoyed watching the black reavers flee like a startled flock of crows, yet it had reminded him of the triple fleet that sailed to intercept Zyung at Ongthaia. There had been no word since its departure. Had the battle been joined there yet? Would the Kings of Yaskatha and Mumbaza return alive to bring knowledge of their common foes, or were the Southern fleets doomed as Iardu had said they would be? Tyro did not know the full power of Khama the Feathered Serpent, but perhaps it would be enough to win at least a small victory. In his heart, Tyro did not believe they would save the Jade Isles. But if they could weaken the floating horde in some significant way–tear a few ships out of the sky and kill a few thousand Manslayers–that would provide some edge in the coming battle.
Since Varda’s death, Vireon had ridden in silence on a black warhorse, something he could only do at the size of a Man. When camp was made each night, the Giant-King brooded in his royal tent. Tyro had tried to speak with him three times, but in each case Vireon proved tight-lipped and surly. Let the Man-Giant work through his grief, Tyro decided. When they reached the dead city, Vireon must break his silence for a council of strategy. No use having that discussion before they set eyes on the landscape and evaluated its tactical resources.
So Tyro sat alone tonight and enjoyed the wine, occupying his thoughts with memories of Talondra. It had been many weeks since he departed Uurz. He imagined that her taut, brown belly would be lightly swollen by now. He looked into the future, imagining his son as a young lad learning the art of swordplay. Tyro would teach Dairon the Second himself if, Gods willing, he survived this war. His own father had entrusted Tyro’s training to old Lord Zormicus, who had done a fine job. Yet Tyro remembered wishing the Emperor would enter the training yard himself and show his son the proper way to hold and swing a sword. Or at least observe his son’s progress from time to time. However, Dairon the First had been far too busy running the affairs of Uurz to sit and watch a boy swinging a practice blade. Tyro promised himself that he would put his son first. Matters of state should never interfere with matters of family.